


What I Would Delete

by PixChuu22



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Drunk Blow Jobs, Drunk Handjobs, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 10:10:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2344571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixChuu22/pseuds/PixChuu22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of what might have happened if Tessa had shown up at 221B a couple of hours later on John Watson's stag night.</p><p>Porn and angst. I'm sorry the ending isn't more up... but this leaves it canonically plausible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I Would Delete

Molly Hooper had fudged the numbers. It was the only explanation Sherlock Holmes could come up with that accounted for why he and John Watson had ended up so drunk on John's stag night that they'd almost passed out pressed shoulder-to-shoulder-blades on the stairs leading up to 221B Baker Street, the flat they had shared two years before.

Sherlock had always thought that the saying 'if you want something done right, do it yourself' was probably true. He'd have to thank Molly for giving him the final evidence needed to prove it undeniably true. 

Stairs were unarguably a terrible place to try and catch an alcohol-hazed doze, but the feeling of John's shoulder between Sherlock's shoulder blades, warm and solid, more than made up for the hard ridges of the steps that were trying to dig their way through his biceps, ribs, hip, and leg. It was possible to forgive great discomfort if there was a pressing enough reason. Sherlock had once before stood in pouring rain for hours trying to deduce a spray of blood and glitter against the wall of a nightclub after the sorry excuse for a crime scene investigator, Anderson, had voiced his utterly laughable assumptions based on the evidence. Proving Anderson wrong was high on Sherlock's list of Favorite Things to Do and so he would tolerate quite a lot of discomfort if he were able to indulge himself. Laying next to John Watson was at the absolute top of his list of Favorite Things to Do, and the increasing pain of the wooden steps digging into his flesh paled in comparison to what Sherlock would endure to continue feeling the warmth of John against his back. 

But it was not to last; their brief doze on the stairs was interrupted by the appearance of Mrs. Hudson, their landlady, coming out of her flat to take a bag of rubbish out to the bins. They'd had to make a decision as to what they would do with the rest of the night once she'd pointed out how young it still was. Not wanting to cut the stag night short but having no real desire to wade back out into the bar scene, John and Sherlock had retired upstairs into the flat they had shared as flatmates and friends for eighteen months. 

Trying to keep the comfortable alcohol-induced haze going, John had suggested Sherlock find the bottle of scotch that was usually kept tucked at the back of the cabinet below the sink. When Sherlock questioned why John couldn't get it himself, John had admitted that the last time he'd had tried to look for it, he'd upended a pair of beakers, the contents of which had eaten a large hole in the cement floor of the cabinet. 

"I'd wondered where that came from," Sherlock admitted before tossing his Belstaff overcoat onto the back of the sofa and heading towards the kitchen in search of the hidden bottle of scotch. 

With fresh drinks in their hands, they'd retired into the sitting room and collapsed into their respective armchairs, twisting and maneuvering them until they were pointed directly at each other and pushed closer together than they normally were. Soft, comfortable conversation had been interspersed with sips of scotch, the liquor burning pleasantly down Sherlock's throat and setting up a warming sensation in his stomach that matched the gentle buzz of happiness in his head at the reality of sitting with John Watson and letting their conversation flow smoothly over any topic that came up. Eventually, John had refilled their drinks and they'd gotten involved in a very poor game of Rizla, both a little too inebriated to make anything resembling 'educated guesses.' 

Sherlock had to admit that the alcohol had provided a very pleasant numbness to his usually hyperactive brain. His thoughts were slow and dragging, focusing mainly on the way the corner's of John's eyes crinkled when he smiled, how soft John's salt-and-wheat hair looked, and how John's body language was so very _off_ that evening. John, generally stoic and self-contained, was very relaxed thanks to his own adventures in imbibing. At the moment, John's sock-covered feet were resting on the lip of Sherlock's chair, quite close to Sherlock's thigh. If Sherlock gave one little twitch to the side, John's feet would be touching his... not that Sherlock would do that. After all, this was John's stag party. In a few days, he'd be marrying Mary Morstan. While Sherlock may have had momentary twinges of interest in his best friend and flatmate over the years and although they had increased exponentially ever since Sherlock returned from traveling the world in hopes of completely dismantling the criminal web of Jim Moriarty, he would never be so foolish as to try something on what was practically the eve of the other man's wedding. 

"I'm clever," Sherlock said, the words slurring as he tried to pull together the clues John had given him so far, "important to some people, but I tend to rub them up the wrong way." He voiced a quick, delighted laugh as he finally managed to tease out the - rather obvious, in the end - answer. "Got it!" 

"Go on," John murmured, his own words as blurred and indistinct as Sherlock's. 

Sherlock pointed at John using the index finger of the hand holding his tumbler of scotch, nearly sloshing the drink over the lip of the cup with his gesture. "I'm _you,_ aren't I?" 

John's laughter was an absolute delight. Being able to bring such an easy smile to his best friend's face made Sherlock feel almost as accomplished as he felt after solving a murder. Knowing that _he_ was funny enough to tease a laugh out of John Watson, one of the best men he had ever known, made Sherlock's smile grow even wider and he tossed the rest of his drink back as John giggled, collapsing more fully into his armchair as the laughter overtook him. 

Once the fit finally dissolved into occasional hiccups of laughter, John pushed himself slowly forward, balancing on the edge of his chair once again. Sherlock's pulse sped slightly and he wondered if there would be a repeat of the earlier 'accidental' slip that had landed John's warm palm onto Sherlock's knee. It had obviously been a ruse, John's way of testing the waters when he was so inebriated that he had to blink owlishly at his best friend each time he tried to focus on him. John's overly casual shrug and mumbled, "I don't mind" had been patently obvious to Sherlock, and he had tried to set the other man at ease with his own quick shrug and murmur of "Anytime." But the game had moved forward from there. Despite Sherlock's obvious comfort with John's clumsy flirting, nothing more had happened. Was John waiting on _Sherlock_ to make the first move? 

Wait. Hadn't Sherlock just been thinking that he wouldn't act on his attraction to his former flatmate? Sherlock looked down at his glass, noticing it was empty. When had he drunk the rest of his scotch? The whole evening was becoming increasingly difficult for him to grasp. 

"Should I even ask any more questions about who I am?" John asked, gesturing toward the paper stuck to his forehead. "You don't even actually know who it is, right?" 

"Right." 

"Maybe a different game," John muttered, reaching up to crumble the paper in one hand and toss it to the side. "D'you need another drink?" 

Sherlock realized he was still holding onto his empty tumbler and stared into it for several long seconds, trying to debate if he _did_ want another drink or not and only managing to repeat, 'It's empty' over and over in his head, the words somehow failing to sink in and inspire him towards making a choice. 

John drained his own glass and held it towards Sherlock. "Well, I'm having another." 

"All right. Me, too," Sherlock said, glad that the decision had been made by _someone_ since the alcohol had most definitely subdued his own impressive brain. He was remembering again why he so rarely imbibed alcohol; he didn't like feeling this stupid. 

John plucked Sherlock's tumbler from his hand and staggered over to the sitting room table, setting both glasses down roughly. He poured two generous fingers into both tumblers before weaving his way back to his armchair and dropping into it heavily, somehow managing to not spill either drink. He handed Sherlock his refilled tumbler and then chuckled, tossing his drink back before turning to set his own once-again-empty glass down on the small side table next to his armchair. He leaned forward towards Sherlock and stood up halfway onto his feet, his hand reaching out. "Hang on... you've still got your name on your head." 

Sherlock tried to lean forward to make it easier for John to remove the paper at the same time that John leaned into him and they collided, shoulder to shoulder. John's hands came down on Sherlock's shoulders as he tried to stop himself from falling and Sherlock automatically raised his hands to John's waist to steady the wobbly man. There was a beat, heavy and significant as they looked at each other, their faces bare inches apart. It was the same heavy look they had shared so many times over the years, a look full of meanings that Sherlock could not seem to tease out, no matter how long the stare continued. It was a look that seemed to be saying something horribly important but which Sherlock had never found the secret to decoding. 

Then John's hands tightened slightly on Sherlock's shoulders. John's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened, and he leaned down with such suddenness that Sherlock didn't even have a chance to register his own surprise before John's lips were on his, moving with slow intensity. 

Sherlock's lips opened in a startled 'oh' and his breath shuddered out into John's mouth as he took in this newer, closer view of John's face: the subtle wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the darker blond hairs in his eyebrows, the way his eyelashes fluttered as his lips moved against Sherlock's with gentle insistence. Taking Sherlock's open mouth as invitation, John's tongue plunged in and teased against Sherlock's, touching very softly and retreating in playful invitation. Sherlock's eyes slid shut as he lost himself to the sensation of John's mouth on his, John's tongue teasing against his, John's hands tightening possessively on his shoulders. Sherlock realized he was sliding his arms around John's waist without making a conscious decision to do so, enjoying the softness of the thin blue jumper John wore over his button-up and the feel of the taut muscles of John's lower back through the cloth. 

Pressing against John on the stairs had been at the top of Sherlock's list of Favorite Things to Do until he had felt John's mouth on his. Kissing John had instantly shot to the top spot and looked likely to stay there. This was better than solving cases. This was better than watching Anderson's face fall when Sherlock pointed out how enormously wrong the man was. This was better than the trickling heat of heroin in his veins. This needed a whole new list; Sherlock's Favorite Things to Do list could not possibly encompass how incredible kissing John Watson was. 

The kiss went on and on, both of them twisting their heads to get better angles, to deepen the kiss as they fed at each others' mouths, all the reasons why this was a bad idea lost in a haze of alcohol and mutual desire. John's hands had slid slowly to Sherlock's shirtfront, palms and fingertips bumping lightly over Sherlock's clavicle beneath the thin layer of cotton and traveling down his pectorals, fingers finding and tracing circles around Sherlock's nipples through the white cotton button-up. Sherlock could not stop his gasp as John pinched gently on both nipples at the same time. He fisted his hands into the thin jumper at John's lower back as he arched upwards towards the other man in response to continued gentle, teasing pinches. 

And then John was working on the small buttons of Sherlock's shirt, tugging at them impatiently when one or two didn't come undone as easily as the others. Sherlock didn't even think to complain as a button near his navel tore free and clinked against the hardwood floor beyond his armchair. He felt like his brain had completely shut down, the haze of alcohol and the fog of lust overpowering every thought but _'John'_ and _'yes.'_

John pushed both Sherlock's button-up and his jacket off of his shoulders in a single rough movement, baring the pale skin of his shoulders and chest greedily. 

"Oh," John said, the word barely a breath of air as he looked down at Sherlock's newly bared expanse of skin. His face softened slightly and Sherlock stared, surprised to see such longing on John's face directed at himself. But then John was leaning down, his lips skimming across Sherlock's clavicle and along the pulse point in his neck. John's teeth were nipping at the muscle of his shoulder and then working a line down his pectoral until he could press the barest edge of teeth against Sherlock's nipple, causing Sherlock to arch forward yet again, panting softly as desire stabbed from his nipple straight down to his groin, causing him to shift his hips restlessly in his chair. 

"Last chance," John murmured, lips moving against Sherlock's chest. Before Sherlock could puzzle out what those two words meant, John was blowing a hot breath against his sternum, whispering, "God, you're gorgeous" in a thick, worshipful tone of voice that knocked every bit of sense out of Sherlock's head. 

John's hands were on his trousers, freeing the button and lowering the zip as Sherlock's head lolled back against the chair, Sherlock's mouth falling open as he panted harshly at the feel of John's hands brushing against his erection. There was some reason that this shouldn't be happening, but at that moment, he was lost in a haze of alcohol and hormones and nothing seemed to matter except John's hands as they moved to Sherlock's waist and the feel of the calluses on John's palms as they scraped down the soft skin on Sherlock's hips, pushing his trousers and pants down to his ankles while John trailed kisses across Sherlock's thighs, over his knees, and down his shins. Had his shins always been this sensitive? Sherlock shivered delightedly, rolling his head against the chair back and sighing with heavy pleasure at the sensation of John's lips trailing lightly over his legs as he made his way back up. 'John kissing me' on his Favorite Things to Do list had grown from 'lips' to encompass John kissing any part of him. John was pressing a final kiss to Sherlock's thigh just above his knee, his palms sliding slowly up and down Sherlock's calves as he leaned into his lap. 

"Oh, look at you," John murmured, the words slurring as he blinked owlishly up at Sherlock's face, smiling fondly, before glancing back down at Sherlock's bared erection. "Is this for me?" 

And then John was wrapping a hand around Sherlock's straining cock and Sherlock's breath exploded out of him in a huff as his body went tight in response to John's touch. He didn't have a chance to adjust to the warmth of John's palm wrapped around his cock, though, because suddenly John's mouth was closing over him. 

Sherlock mentally made an entirely new Favorite Things to Do list; John sucking his cock took up the first five spots. 

"John!" The word burst from him, his voice higher than normal and tight with the shuddering delight running through his entire body, centered of the hot, wet slide of John's mouth on his cock. 

John hesitated for a moment, his mouth going still around Sherlock's achingly hard cock. Slowly, he drew his mouth back up, leaving Sherlock pulsing in the cool air of the sitting room. "Is this okay?" 

"Yes. Yes, it is _very_ okay," Sherlock said, hands fisted tightly and pressing against the arms of his chair as he looked down at John, meeting his dark blue eyes and taking note of the blown pupils. John definitely wanted this as much as Sherlock did. There was no reason to stop it... was there? 

And then John's mouth was closing on his cock again, sucking and sliding, and Sherlock's mind went blank except for the sparkling reaction to the feeling of John sucking on him. Sherlock's hands gave a quick spasm, nails scratching at the dark leather upholstering the arms of his chair as he writhed. John's hands landed on his bare thighs, holding him still as he worked Sherlock in and out of his mouth. Sherlock could feel John's tongue swirling around the length of his cock. That same tongue had been so cleverly teasing against his own just minutes before, and Sherlock was pleased to find it was every bit as talented working along his length. 

John's hands gentled and began sliding up and down Sherlock's thighs, his touch somehow both tender and covetous as he explored the muscles in Sherlock's thighs and hips, sweeping his hands around to grip at the sides of Sherlock's buttocks. He slid his hands up and under Sherlock's unbuttoned shirt, stroking across his sides and stomach. Through all of it, John continued to suck and lick at the throbbing cock in his mouth. 

With John's hands stroking across his body rather than holding his thighs down, Sherlock found he could make small upward thrusts with his hips, pressing his cock deeper into John's willing mouth. He tried it cautiously, and when John only moaned softly in response, Sherlock began to thrust with more vigor. John seemed to have adjusted to the idea of Sherlock fucking into his mouth, relaxing and letting Sherlock do most of the work while John took occasional sucks or swirled his tongue around Sherlock's length. In no time at all, Sherlock had one hand gripping the arm of his chair hard enough to hurt his fingers and the other clutching into John's short salt-and-wheat hair, stroking and gripping with each wave of pleasure that shuddered through his body. 

Sherlock wished he were more clear-headed; this moment felt incredibly important, and he was having trouble reasoning out why. He had been distracted by John for years, frequently finding his mind wandering to thoughts of the other man when there were no cases on which he needed to concentrate. In the last few months, after being reunited with his friend following 18 months of separation while Sherlock was destroying consulting criminal Jim Moriarty's web of contacts across the globe, he had found himself wanting something _more_ from John. He had assumed it was just the loss of John's constant companionship, now that the man lived in a flat by himself rather than sharing 221B Baker Street with Sherlock, but the feeling of John sucking and slurping hungrily at his cock was resonating throughout Sherlock as the 'more' that he had been so desperately seeking. 

Sherlock's body went tight as he felt the building pool of heat low in his groin suddenly expand outward. His hand tightened in John's hair sharply. "John, I'm... I think I'm going to... _John!"_

Sherlock gave a harsh, guttural moan, looking down at John as he spurted into the other man's mouth. He had expected John to pull back, but John looked up and met his eyes and swallowed repetitively, his tongue stroking against Sherlock's glans. 

Sherlock's head fell against the back of his chair, his entire body shuddering with slowly fading pings of sensation. John slowly drew his mouth off of Sherlock's still-hard cock, rising to his feet and taking a couple of steps back until he could fall into his own armchair, a soft smile playing at his mouth. "Been wanting to do that for ages," he said, the words slurring together. But Sherlock still understood him, and he raised his head slowly from the chair back, staring at John with surprise. 

"You... have?" 

"God, yes. I mean, look at you." John gestured vaguely in Sherlock's general direction, his heavy-lidded eyes full of appreciation for the ruffled, half-stripped and completely debauched man sitting across from him. "Bloody gorgeous, you are. And brilliant. And just... _you._ Of _course,_ I wanted to do that." 

Sherlock slid unsteadily from his chair and onto his knees, his head still buzzing from alcohol and post-orgasmic bliss, pulling his pants and trousers up and redoing the button but leaving the zip down until he wouldn't risk hurting his still half-hard cock. He walked carefully on his knees to John's chair, pressing himself between John's legs and sliding his hands slowly up John's thighs to cuddle his thumbs and forefingers solidly against John's hipbones, the rest of his fingers trailing down the side of John's thighs. John's smile had faded and he stared at Sherlock with confusion, his unfocused eyes blinking slowly. 

"There are things I've wanted to do, too," Sherlock said, his voice a soft rumble. His heart was hammering in his chest; despite the absolutely amazing blowjob John had just given him, he still worried that John would quash Sherlock's advances. So, he moved very cautiously as he brought his hands around to John's fly, keeping his eyes fixed on John's face as he undid the button and then maneuvered the zip carefully over John's erection. The soft flush rising up John's cheek and the increase in respiration encouraged Sherlock and he carefully worked his hand into John's pants, wrapping his long fingers around the incredible heat of John's cock. 

"God, yes," John whispered, his eyes sliding shut for a moment as Sherlock cautiously maneuvered John's hard cock out of his pants, baring its gorgeous length to the air of the sitting room. For a moment, Sherlock considered trying to repeat what John had just done for him, but his experiences with blowjobs were limited to brief internet searches and what John had demonstrated moments before. He decided to stick to something he had some familiarity with and wrapped his hand more firmly around John's cock, beginning to carefully pump his fist up and down the length while watching John's face to read if what he was doing was good. 

It was immensely gratifying to find that John was a vocal and responsive lover. Sherlock had barely begun working John's cock when the other man let out a soft, appreciative moan, raising one hand to press his palm against his forehead, his fingers digging into his short blond hair. "Oh, Sherlock, Jesus... just like that." 

Sherlock stroked up, gripping tightly as he came to John's foreskin, working it in several short, sharp strokes against John's glans and making the other man gasp and jerk his hips up, thrusting into Sherlock's grip. 

"Ah, fuck," John said, his voice thin as he looked down at Sherlock, his expression full of some soft emotion that Sherlock could not name. 

Sherlock leaned into John's lap cautiously as he began working his fist along John's full length again. There was a small clear bead of precum gathering at John's slit and he desperately wanted to taste it. He had catalogued so much of John Watson over the years; passing up this opportunity would be wasteful. 

Sherlock's tongue flicked out, the tip brushing lightly over the head of John's cock and gathering up the salty drop of precum. John made a strained noise low in his throat, both hands slamming down on the arms of the chair and gripping hard. 

"That's gorgeous," John rasped. "Do that again. God, I'm getting so close..." 

That was all the encouragement Sherlock needed. He continued pumping the length of John's cock in his fist as he leaned into John's lap again, bracing his free hand on the seat cushion just next to John's taut, quivering thigh. This time, Sherlock took a much more generous lick, laving the flat of his tongue across the head of John's cock. 

_"Sherlock!"_ John shouted, his hips bucking up with such sudden force that Sherlock didn't have a chance to lean back before John was coming in his face, bursts of surprising heat spattering along one cheek and across his lips and chin. 

John's hips dropped heavily back into the chair, his breath a hurricane as he brought his hands up, rubbing at his face slowly while he trembled with the aftershocks of his orgasm. When he finally dropped his hands, he looked down at Sherlock with a soft smile that froze as he took in the other man's face. 

"Oh, God," John whispered, and his voice had gone dark and throaty as he surveyed the stripes of his cum on Sherlock's face. Sherlock was still stunned at what had happened, but he realized John was staring at him with unguarded heat and his tongue flicked out, tasting John's cum on his lower lip. John watched the little tongue flick and his breathing stopped for several seconds. When he was finally able to drag in a rough breath, he whispered, "That had to be the most arousing thing I've ever seen." 

Sherlock smiled slowly, eyelids lowering slightly as he looked up at John through his eyelashes. "I was going to say the same of watching you orgasm." 

John's face tightened with a kind of painful longing and he reached down, brushing his fingers through Sherlock's curls with excruciating tenderness. "Why don't you go wash your face and then come have a cuddle?" 

Sherlock raised one eyebrow but pushed to his feet willingly. He didn't really want to be away from John at the moment, but washing up made sense. He stumbled unsteadily to the bathroom, the alcohol still playing hell with him, and scrubbed his face quickly but thoroughly, taking a few seconds to neaten his clothes again. He was back in the sitting room within a couple of minutes and John, his trousers on and his jumper smoothed, was waiting on the sofa with a refilled tumbler of scotch, his expression sleepy and soft as he watched Sherlock move across the room towards him. 

"Just here," John said, petting the sofa next to him. Sherlock hesitated for only a moment before stumbling over to the sofa and collapsing next to John. John's near arm went around his shoulders, drawing Sherlock's head down to nestle against John's shoulder. John's fingers began threading through Sherlock's curls gently and repetitively, soothing the taller man, and he raised his tumbler to take a sip of the dark liquid within. 

"That was amazing," Sherlock said, his voice a soft rumble in the silence of the sitting room. 

"It was," John agreed, turning his head to press a soft kiss into Sherlock's curls. 

"What..." Sherlock broke off and after a moment of silence, John shrugged his shoulder lightly a couple of times beneath Sherlock's cheek. 

"'What' what?" he asked, fingers still stroking and tugging lightly at Sherlock's curls and sending little shivery bursts of pleasure through Sherlock. 

"What does it mean for... us?" Sherlock asked, hating the words even as he spoke them. They seemed so horrifically needy, so fraught with emotional connotation. Had he been less inebriated, he could have found a more eloquent way of phrasing the question, he was sure. Of course, had he been less inebriated, he probably would not have asked the question at all. 

"Whatever we want," John said. He paused for a moment and then tossed the rest of his drink back. "I'm mad about you. Have been forever. What do you feel for me?" 

"You distract me," Sherlock said, aware that the words weren't precisely what he wanted but somehow unable to parse the right ones through the thickness of alcohol still swirling through his head. "I think of you constantly. Only you, no one else. Always you." 

"Sounds almost like a confession of love," John said, dropping his empty tumbler to the sofa beside him and nuzzling his nose against the crown of Sherlock's head. 

"It is," Sherlock said, rubbing his cheek languidly against John's shoulder. 

"Oh. _Oh,_ " John said, sounding almost like himself for a moment. "Are you... did you... you love me?" 

"Yes," Sherlock admitted, eyes sliding shut and body tensing as he waited for John to reject him. But why would John reject him? Hadn't they just had something resembling sex in the armchairs across the room? Didn't that imply something? There was an idea niggling at the back of Sherlock's mind, someone else that he needed to be thinking of, someone else who had bearing on this moment... but the thought would not come forward. 

"Jesus, suddenly I'm wishing I'd had less to drink," John said, the words stumbling one over the other. "I feel like this is important, but I can't focus on anything." 

"I know that feeling," Sherlock admitted, stroking his hand gently along the length of John's thigh, enjoying the feel of John's muscles beneath the trousers. 

"Maybe if we just rest for a bit, let the alcohol clear out?" John suggested, fingers pausing and resting at the nape of Sherlock's neck, twiddling absentmindedly with the curl there. 

"Mm," Sherlock murmured, eyes already sliding shut. His hand was on John's thigh, his head on John's shoulder. He'd just brought John to a screaming orgasm after John had sucked him off. Dozing next to John on the sofa sounded like absolutely the right thing to do. 

They'd only been sleeping for twenty minutes when Mrs. Hudson's 'ooo hoo!' and tap at the sitting room door announced the arrival of a client. Focusing on the client's story was almost impossible. Finding clues at the flat the client led them to was completely useless. Vomiting on the crime scene was surprisingly easy, though. Falling asleep on the uncomfortable drunk tank bed with John sitting on the floor nearby and cradling Sherlock's hand in his own was comforting in a way Sherlock could not have described, even if he hadn't been completely inebriated. 

The interruption of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade a few hours later hit Sherlock like a kick to the temple, sending spasms of shock and adrenaline juddering through his body as he struggled to understand what was going on. He caught a brief glimpse of John staggering out of the cell. 

"Come on," Lestrade said, gesturing Sherlock towards the cell door before heading out after John. Sherlock found he had to fight with his own body to get to his feet, his head pounding out fitful protests even as his equilibrium skidded around him giddily and left him stumbling when he tried to rise to his feet. When he finally managed to get himself fully upright, he headed cautiously after John and Lestrade, doubting whether he was going to be able to make it all the way out of the cell without a repeat of his impression the night before of a bucket of slop being poured out. 

John was already gathering his personal items from the desk sergeant when Sherlock staggered up behind him. 

"All right?" John asked, the slur gone from the words after a few hours of deducting followed by a few hours of sleeping. He still looked as if alcohol was having its way with his higher functions, though, and he eyed Sherlock with blinking confusion. 

"Uh... no. I've been better," Sherlock admitted, reaching out to take his coat from the desk sergeant. 

"I've lost whole chunks of the evening," John admitted. "There was... a client? Two clients? I remember a man and a woman at a nice flat... but how did we even meet her? Was she at one of the bars?" 

"At... the bar? John, we went back to the flat," Sherlock said, his pulse speeding and causing his headache to launch into explosive, fiery waves. He was able to ignore the ratcheting pain only because he was so focused on John's words. 

"Did we? Jesus, how much did I _drink_ last night?" John muttered, rubbing his palm roughly over his face. He shoved his wallet into his pocket, sighing. "Well, thanks for a... you know... an evening." 

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, realization washing over him in a cold rush. John had forgotten what they had done in the flat. John had forgotten the sex and the confession of love. John had forgotten Sherlock curled against him on the sofa, pliant and content. John had _forgotten._

"It was awful," Sherlock said softly, shrugging his coat on as he stumbled automatically after John. 

"Yeah," John agreed. 

Sherlock groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as he fought not to show the emotional maelstrom swirling through him. 

"I was going to pretend, but... it was. Truly," John said, completely unaware of the stab of pain that his words sent through Sherlock. John had lost nearly all of the later part of the evening and what he _could_ remember was awful. If he'd had anything left in his stomach, Sherlock strongly suspected he would have vomited in the hallway of New Scotland Yard and gotten himself tossed back into the drunk tank despite Lestrade's efforts to get them out. 

There was nothing to do but to shut it down. Shut it _all_ down. With practiced efficiency, Sherlock pushed his emotions down, pressing them smaller and smaller until it was possible for him to pretend they weren't even there. He shoved away his disappointment and hurt, subsumed them into something that he _could_ handle: The Work. 

"That woman, Tessa," he said, squinting as he tried to remember the part of the evening that included the client rather than the part of the evening that included John's mouth on his, John's fingers carding through his curls - _stop._

"What?" John asked, obviously not following Sherlock's sudden change in topic. 

"Dated a ghost. The most interesting case for months. What a _wasted_ opportunity," Sherlock muttered viciously, pouring his disappointment for more than the case into his words. 

"Okay," John muttered dismissively and followed after Sherlock out of The Yard, wrapped up in his own hangover-induced misery. 

The true horror of it didn't hit Sherlock until hours later, sitting alone in 221B and trying to focus on what should have been several very interesting slides of epithelial cells. He was continuously distracted by his memories of the evening before, his eyes dragging inexorably up from the microscope eyepieces to slide towards the sitting room and focus on the two armchairs, still pushed intimately close together. 

_'This is ridiculous,'_ he thought savagely after dragging his eyes away from the chairs for the third time in the last twenty minutes. _'If I can't ignore it, I'll just delete it.'_

He'd hardly had time to think it before a wave of pain clenched in his chest, causing Sherlock to bare his teeth in a snarl as he curled reflexively forward, hands dropping from the microscope to cradle his own body. He hadn't truly meant the thought; he could not delete the experience of the previous night, not even if he had really wanted to. For a few hours, he had believed that he would get to have John, to belong to John. The answer to all the longing looks and silent moments full of unspoken words had been set in front of them both the night before... and John had forgotten. With the resumption of daylight, John had headed back to his own flat and to his waiting fiancée. John had no idea that his feelings were returned and there was no chance for Sherlock to tell him before tomorrow's wedding. John and Mary would be finalizing last minute details today, and this evening was the rehearsal dinner. Tomorrow was the wedding. It was too late. 

'Last chance,' John had said the night before, his lips moving against the skin of Sherlock's chest. With another wave of clenching pain in his gut, Sherlock realized what John had been saying. Their last chance to be honest with each other before the wedding and Mary swept John out of Sherlock's reach. 

With a wave of sudden fury, Sherlock uncurled his body and swept his microscope, slides, and several empty beakers off the table with one forearm. His anger dissipated as quickly as it had surged, though, leaving him trembling and panting, his mind echoing emptily. He stared at the shattered glass on the kitchen floor for several long, aching seconds before slowly dropping his forehead down onto the cool wood of the tabletop, his eyes shutting tightly against the pulse of hopelessness echoing through him. He would never delete the one stolen night with John, but that didn't stop him from wishing he could. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much for reading this fic. If you haven't yet, please take a moment to leave Kudos (and, if you are reading this Note at the very end, I assume you enjoyed it enough to WANT to leave Kudos). Comments are my addiction; I love to chat. Don't hesitate to ask questions or just say how much you enjoyed reading.
> 
> You can follow my Tumblr for updates and random writerly musings, blog-only ficlets on Fridays, plus reblogs of Johnlock theories and metas that catch my attention: http://erynnem22.tumblr.com/
> 
> See you in the next fanfic.


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